


Incognito

by stunningepiphanies



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:34:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5438624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stunningepiphanies/pseuds/stunningepiphanies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1965: Gaby goes undercover as a secretary and has a troubling day in the office.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incognito

**Author's Note:**

> Like always, this can be read as taking place in the 1990-verse, but works as a standalone as well. Enjoy!

"I'm here to see Mr Barnett, sweetheart."

Gaby didn't look up from her book, electing to ignore the tall man leaning on her nice glass topped desk (and leaving greasy smudges all over it, too) for more important intellectual pursuits. Secretary Kat Bauer was supposed to be flighty and a little bit absent anyway, and where men like him were concerned Gaby had no problem playing her role to the letter. She just sniffed, turning the page without so much as a "sit down". 

_'For over fifteen years, the words written for women, and the words women used when they talked to each other, while their husbands sat on the other side of the room and talked shop of politics or septic tanks, were about problems with their children, or how to keep their husbands happy, or-'_

The man, unfortunately, was not going to have that at all. Hilariously inappropriate considering the book in her hands at the moment, but not unexpected. She'd already found that if she armed herself with a little women's lib literature at her desk, men became more obnoxious than usual. "

Look, honey I'm runnin' on a tight schedule here." That nasal whine- an accent Gaby had come to learn as Bostonian- was followed by two short, hard knocks right underneath her raised book. And, of course, right under her nose. Slowly, so so slowly so she didn't break and do something mildly violent, she slid her bookmark in place and looked up at the visitor. He was unremarkable, dressed like every other harried Chicago businessman. Grey coat, grey hat, grey suit, brown shoes. Solo would probably have several things to say about those shoes, three of them probably in French and one full of words that could even make _her_ ears burn. 

"Well," She drawled slowly, in the most put-upon but slightly professional voice she could muster, "do you have an appointment?" He did not, she knew already. She personally took all of her boss' calls for him, and there had been nothing today but an international call at one with a Mr Waverly (so rude over the phone, Kat had told her boss, who knew the British were so rude?) and a late lunch with the distinct attorney at three. Hoards of other inconsequential businessmen like this one had called too, but she had standing orders from Mr Barnett to take their messages and promptly put them in the garbage.

Too bad she couldn't do the same with this man. 

The man frowned, crossing his arms like a petulant child. "It's Jack Murphy, tell him I need to see him. He'll know." If he'd stomped his foot there at the end, he'd be the perfect picture of a temperature tantrum. 

Sighing, she brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear and made a show of thumbing through her planner for Mr Murphy. She'd learned very quickly that the kind of men who ran in Barnett's circles were supremely entitled, and the only way to avoid all out fits was to give in to little demands. Not things they actually wanted, but small things, things that made it look like she was actually deferring to them. Which would never actually happen, but the small battles she was willing to lose. 

Gaby tapped at the conspicuously empty day with one brightly enameled fingernail (she's so painfully modern, so bright, just like Barnett liked; fresh young party girls with big taste and a desperation to pay for it all). "No, I don't _see_ anything here."

Mr Murphy made a noise remarkably like an angry pug, but he held his ground. "I need to see him _now_ , sweetheart." Through her desktop she could see his shoe tapping away. _Like he's nervous_ , she thought, _or possibly hiding something._ She filed that away in her mental rolodex- it might come in handy later. 

In response, that same bright finger pointed him over to a plush looking couch by the large window that served as the offices north facing wall. "He's at breakfast with investors at the moment, sir, but when he comes in I'm sure he'll be glad to see you."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man look back at her as he stalked to the sitting area. She'd look him up later, of course, with the rest of Barnett's shady business partners. Normally they only came on Tuesday and Thursday- always more efficient to schedule your illegal activities for slow days, apparently- but it wasn't unheard of to have someone suspicious on a Monday. However, the name Murphy hadn't been one she'd seen in any dossiers, or even in paperwork she'd filed in the last few weeks. A new connection, perhaps? Or an old one come back to stir the pot?

Unfortunately, she couldn't just go looking for him in her actual roledex or in the files she had tucked away behind her in the alcove. There was surveillance on her already, she knew. Not that Barnett suspected her or had reason to, but intelligence suggested he'd been monitoring all of his secretaries ("Oh Miss Bauer, I noticed you've been on the phone quite a lot. Please stay after five, come to my office, we should talk about this... "), in the office and in other public areas. Nowhere to go during the day, then, to do her real job. 

Ah, well. At least the book was good. 

_'No one argued whether women were inferior or superior to men; they were simply different... '_

\---

A half hour later Barnett was back in his office going over papers, and Mr Murphy was still sunk down into the burnt orange couch feet away from his door. Gaby had moved on from her book (Kat had a short attention span, couldn't possibly pay attention to anything but frivolity) to repainting her nails. By then the _tap-tap-tap_ of their visitor's ugly brown shoes had melted into the background along with the tick of her clock and the thrum of the heater. 

Gaby didn't even look up from her task, too intent on getting her lines clean to even bother being civil. If her nail polish was uneven Illya would never let her hear the end of it, as fussy as he was about her undercover appearance. In lieu of pointing a finger back to the waiting area, Gaby pointed a shiny leather covered toe over to the couch. It was a little unconventional, maybe even flirty, but she thought Solo would appreciate the gesture. He was always advocating for distraction anyway. 

\---

It was nearly one when Mr Murphy once again tap-tap-tapped his way up to her desk. Gaby only gave him the barest, uninterested glance before she turned her attention back to the magazine in her hands (she'd moved on to _Vogue_ , mostly to marvel at the mass of advertising than the clothes Illya and Solo so adored)- he'd bothered her at least six times and she was more than willing to get petty now, screw the cover. Tonight, her dreams would definitely be full of tapping shoes, and she hoped maybe in her dreams she could act out a little violent fantasy she'd been entertaining, one starring a heavy wrench and a tire iron. 

"Look, sweetheart, I gotta have this meeting." He rapped on her desk once again, and Gaby had a peculiar impulse to punch the man in the throat. "Put down your little perfume ads and look at me." And then, without so much as an _excuse me_ , he lunged across the desk and grabbed her slender wrist. 

Oh. Oh _Gott im Himmel_ , she was really going to have to commit a murder today, wasn't she? There were no tire irons handy now, but she had a pistol tucked into her purse and one strapped to her thigh. Quickly, she calculated the time it would take to get to either, but the math wasn't in her favor. Any more she took would leave her open for a few crucial seconds. It was no use. 

Her tense hands tightened on her magazine, nails puncturing the cover with unsettling ease. Illya had called all that filing unnecessary, but it was just for times like this, when she needed to shred her way out of a confrontation without actually betraying her spy training. She reared back, dropping the magazine to the floor with her free hand. "Sir," she started, far more calm than the bastard deserved, "I suggest you let go now or-" 

"Gaby, it's me. "

Gaby froze, unsure of what she just heard. That voice wasn't a nasal whine anymore. It was smooth, like fine whiskey or dark polished wood, and it was so, so familiar. She leaned in then, looking the man straight in the eye. It took a moment to really see, but then everything suddenly appeared so obviously, like one of those magic eye picture. 

"Solo? Oh my-"

He shushed her, eyes flicking around the room. Oh, the smug little-! He'd already sussed out where the cameras were! 

Solo's voice had been low and calm, though his body language was anything but. Putting on a show for the cameras, of course. Gaby followed suit, making her face look as distressed as possible, he body shrinking into itself. Just a scared girl and an overbearing man- out of the ordinary but easily explained. 

"I'm sorry I didn't say anything before, but you couldn't know." His eyes were sympathetic, starkly contrasting with is sour mouth. "Waverly had to know if my disguise was going to be workable. If my shrewdest partner couldn't make the distinction, it passed." He paused, and couldn't help the smirk threatening at the corner of his mouth. 

"Oh, Solo, " Gaby sighed, ripping her hand from his grip. She made a show of rubbing at her slender wrist, while Solo straightened and gave her a brusque nod. "You realize how much trouble you're in, right?" Work was work, she understood, but Gaby was never one for being blindsided by her allies. 

That was karma, she supposed. 

"Oh, yes, but please only come at me in this. Blood might actually make this suit look better." He looked down at his shoes, and pulled a face. Served him right. Bad shoes were the only fitting punishment for Solo.

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes on this:
> 
> 1) The general premise on this story is based a story my adoptive grandmother told me about her father's time in the CIA in the 50s. Of course, it was a story she'd learned well after the fact, after he retired and could admit exactly what government job he'd really had to her. She has since subtly implied she may still have family working there. 
> 
> At one point in her childhood, her stepmother got a job as a secretary in some sort of company. She had a man come in one day, and told him to sit with the other men that had appointments. He came up to check with her (politely) a few times, but the last time, he leaned over and said "Hey! It's me!" So, basically, he'd decided to test his disguise out on his poor unsuspecting wife who was just doin' her job. 
> 
> 2) Gaby here is reading _The Feminine Mystique_ , a book credited with helping launch second wave feminism in 1963. It has an overwhelming focus on American mothers and it isn't really enlightened as compared to modern feminist literature, but it was very important in its time. I like to think Gaby was a big feminist in the early days. 
> 
> 3) Yes, I'm still working on 1990. I hit a bit of a snag because grad school ate me whole, but the verse is not abandoned! Promise.


End file.
